


Ain't No Me If There Ain't No You

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Clusterfuck of Emotions, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marathon Sex, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-23 04:47:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8314450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: Sam knows tonight will be different—significant, somehow—when Dean kisses him slower than usual.





	

                Sam knows tonight will be different—significant, somehow—when Dean kisses him slower than usual. Sweeter. Really putting those plush, pretty lips to good use.

                They drove back to the bunker only this morning, returning from a standard salt-and-burn in Oregon. Anything to feel useful and do some good between tracking Amara and trying to shut down the Darkness. The only item on the agenda tonight is catching up on shuteye. They’ll skim the news for any cases or leads bright ’n’ early tomorrow.

                A night off means a few things for them. It means that they have a chance for some real food—no greasy, foil wrappers or pre-portioned servings saturated with preservatives. It means taking a leisurely, steamy shower in their own bathrooms. _Their own bathrooms_. Seriously. That, in itself, is enough to make both of them feel like they’re living a real pampered, apple-pie life.

                It usually means another thing, too.

                Sam’s toweling dry, pulling a pair of sweatpants over his hips, luxuriating in the simple physical pleasures of being clean and well-fed and comfortable, his toes curling into the carpet as he sighs. Mental and emotional contentment aren’t really on the table for him or Dean, so he’ll take what he can get.

                He’s untucking the covers from his bed when Dean pads into the doorway.

                They don’t discuss sleeping arrangements; it’s more of an organic process. They’re still brothers, first and foremost, and some nights, they want the space and privacy and quiet of their own rooms. Other times, it’s late, nightmares are running rampant, and it’s easier to find sleep when they’re woven together, arms and legs and fingers, under the covers. Mostly, they just like the scent of each other’s sheets and pillows, undiluted _Sam_ or _Dean,_ and the radiating warmth from each other’s skin.

                Fresh from his shower, Dean’s naked and glittered with beads of water, leaving behind a trail with every step. The lamp on Sam’s nightstand turns his brother golden and shadowed, droplets skipping over the smooth planes of Dean's body. The descriptor that immediately comes to mind—and clings to the forefront of his brain, the backs of his eyelids—is “statuesque.” If Dean ever finds out, his big brother will definitely kick his ass.

                Dean’s always undervalued himself, body not excluded—not that he has an inferiority complex over his appearance or anything. Hunters have perspective if nothing else, and vanity’s a low-ranking concern amidst monsters and death and the apocalypse.

                But, man, Sam appreciates it enough for the both of them. His brother eats what he wants, when he wants, and washes it all down with too much beer and whiskey. He’s earned his muscles on the job, digging graves and training with weapons and running for his life. Dean’s not chiseled or ripped, his belly seemingly soft, but Sam’s been pressed against that body enough times to know that it’s compact and toned and strong.

                Tendrils of want, of cloying, warm affection curl in the pit of Sam's stomach as his eyes dart over those meaty biceps and thighs he loves so much, that sweet face with its smattering of freckles. His big brother possesses a wild, natural, wholesome kind o’ beauty, one that comes without trying. Dean always rolls his eyes and punches Sam in the shoulder whenever he hears he’s beautiful.

                But, this close, with Dean only inches away from him now, it’s true. Objective. Not up for debate. Dean's eyes are so green, and Sam would die for him, and his brother is gorgeous. These thoughts are absolute. Matter of fact.

                “Sammy,” Dean murmurs on the tail-end of an exhale, quiet as a whisper. His thumbs hook underneath Sam’s waistbands, urging them lower until the elastic recoils and the fabric pools at their feet.

                Dean’s right arm circles his neck, callused palm rasping across Sam’s nape to cup the ball of his opposite shoulder. His brother reels him in for these unbelievable long, exhausting kisses that make Sam’s jaw work and his tongue flex. They turn him hungry and heavy and intoxicated, leaching any residual sense of urgency from him.

                “What’s gotten into you?” he gasps out despite the satisfying ache building in his chest, a demand for longer pulls of air in the split seconds between Dean's latching mouth. The back of Sam’s throat tastes sweet, the way it does when he cries or laughs too hard.

                A half-smile pulls the corners of Dean’s lips, and he shakes his head. An obvious brush-off. “How d’you feel?” His brother pants in soft puffs, threading his fingers through Sam’s hair, pushing it back and away from their faces.

                “Never took you for the caring and sharing type,” Sam jokes. He wrangles Dean closer, hands sliding down his brother’s vertebrae and the sleek, sturdy bands of erector spinae that run the length of his back. A self-indulgence.

                He has a perfect mental image of the paired muscles, taut under Dean's sweaty skin as his back curves concave, full ass canting upwards for Sam's taking. A deep furrow forms between those tense muscles when his brother holds that position, never failing to entice Sam to leave bruising kisses from nape to tailbone.

                “You know what I mean, jackass.” His brother traces a finger around the puckered, silky scar from the bullet’s entry wound. Dean pulled the round out of his gut three weeks ago. The disfigured lump of metal’s still sitting on Dean’s nightstand, next to the picture of him and Mom.

                Sam’s voice drops to a rough, hushed tone. Because he knows what this is about now. “I’m fine, Dean. I’ve been fine.” They tease and name-call through most of their conversations—as brothers should—but Sam can never mock Dean for showing concern. His brother’s only sentimental and outwardly caring when he’s reaching a breaking point or has already passed it.

                “Good, Sammy. That’s real good.” Dean releases a pent-up _whoosh_ of breath and brushes his thumb feather-light over the raw gouge in Sam’s belly. “Because I—” Dean chokes on the rest of the words, his throat constricting, tendon and muscle cording with a tight swallow.

                “What?” Sam’s fingertips skirt along the sharp ridge of Dean’s jaw.

                “I want you to, y’know, fuck me.” Dean chews his lip, dilated eyes flicking across Sam’s face, those ridiculous lashes casting a long, spiky shadow over his lit cheek. He looks a little unsure, more than a little stunning, such a goddamn sweet sight right then that Sam’s stomach clenches tight with both empathy and lust. “You up for it?”

                Sam’s never seen his brother act the mother hen more than after he was shot by that werewolf. Sam gets it. Billie’s promise is a newly added weight on both of their shoulders. She’s not bluffing. An eternal, permanent death spent in the Empty. No escape, no loopholes, no salvation.

                Sam’s not careless. Out of the two of them, he’s the one who presses his limits less often, asks for help a lot sooner. But acting the big brother is an old habit that Dean’ll never let die, so he’s been pumping the gas and fetching the food and doing their laundry while Sam’s supposed to “concentrate on not bustin’ open the friggin’ stitches.”

                As a compromise—an unspoken one—Dean never suggests that he stay behind on a hunt or take a passive role. He knows better. Even Sam has boundaries when it comes to coddling, and it’s not the Winchester way to stay laid up for long. Still, Sam felt a jolt of guilt when he _did_ rip his stitches a week after Grangeville, tossed into a table by a skinwalker. Dean sewed him back up, eyes alternating restlessly between his needlework and the fresh bloom of blood on Sam’s shirt, a blanched, pinched look on his brother's face and a deadly cloud of silence surrounding them.

                Dean drove fourteen hours straight back to Lebanon without uttering a single word, jaw clenched, eyes fiery. When his brother did finally speak, it was only to tell him they were staying home for the next few days. Sam didn't have the heart to argue with him, not when he woke every morning to find that Dean had slipped soundlessly into bed with him during the night.

                “Fuck yeah,” Sam breathes, grinning, dragging his lips across Dean’s mouth in a grazing kiss. His hand plants itself flat between his brother’s shoulder blades, bringing them chest to chest, pressing their heartbeats together. Their hearts thud in asynchrony, a dissonant sort of rhythm. But an unforgettable one, too. And Sam thinks that suits the pair of them just fine.

* * *

                “God, I missed this,” Dean mumbles, the side of his face smooshed against Sam’s chest. His brother collapsed on top of him after his last orgasm, a slick of sweat now accumulating between their overheated skin.

                Nothing makes Dean more boneless and relaxed than a good, thorough fuck. His eyes go heavy-lidded and hazy, lips remaining slightly parted, humid breath leaving behind a chill on Sam’s skin. Dean looks like a walking wet dream when he’s fucked-out, tempting Sam into round after round of sex when time and their combined levels of sleep deprivation allow for it.

                Sam’s fucked his brother twice already, and after nearly a month without it, Dean’s a writhing, pliant, _insatiable_ heap against him.   

                “Me, too,” Sam agrees. Sex with Dean is consuming, incomparable—no matter the “how”—but they’re at their best like this. Dean taking him in, trusting Sam to make him feel good, to care for him. Sam loves to give him that, to be the only one who can.

                “We don’t have to miss it.” Dean notches his chin between Sam’s pecs, top row of teeth skating over his plump bottom lip before it pops out of his mouth. “Could go again.”

                Sam snorts and teases, “Greedy.”

                “What can I say? For a geek, you really know what you’re doin’ down there.” As payback, Dean pinches his nipple with a sharp twist of his fingers, letting out a low chuckle when Sam yelps. His big brother’s weak when he’s well-fucked, deliciously easy, so Dean takes pity and chases the hurt away with his warm mouth, lapping and sucking.

                “Dammit.” Sam moans, throat arching as he digs his head back into the pillow, and cradles the crown of Dean’s head in his palm. The hair’s still damp, downy-fine without any product, and it bristles when Sam runs his hand over the curve of his brother’s skull. “Not sixteen anymore, Dean. My dick can’t spring back to attention a minute after I come.”

                Dean lifts off of his nipple with a wet mouth and a smirk. “Sure it can. Just needs the right kind o’ motivation.” His brother slides down his torso, dragging that damn pouty lip over the midline of Sam's body. Along the groove that bisects his abs, across his belly button and pubic bone.

                He shudders when Dean mouths at the length of his soft, spent cock. His brother kisses the tip before letting it glide past his lips into slippery warmth. Sam seizes up on a sharp inhale, still oversensitive, fingers digging into Dean's shoulder.

                “That’s it,” he croons. “Nice ’n’ easy.” Dean’s licking out his slit, prodding the underside of the head with his tongue, sucking and humming around him like Sam’s his favorite flavor of lollipop. Eyes closed, face smooth and blissed-out, his free hand massaging Sam’s sac.

                _Oh_. A shivery tide of heat ebbs and flows over Sam's skin with the realization.

                He hasn't so much as wiped them down between their first and second fuck. His cock’s bound to taste like come and lube and _Dean_ , and the way his brother is slurping around him is just the right side of dirty and wanton. A hot, new, voracious pleasure gathers and sparks at the base of Sam's spine, in the pit of his stomach.

                As Dean pulls off, his eyes flutter open, soft and glassy, and he whispers hoarsely, “Give it to me again, Sammy.”

                Sam’s responding growl is a low, ragged “geddup here.” Once Dean’s in arms’ reach, Sam hauls him in by the nape for a kiss, groaning rough and broken at the texture, the filthy-savory flavor of his brother’s lips. He anchors Dean to his chest with one hand and lets the other drift down, down, grabbing handfuls of silky skin and firm muscle.

                “Christ, Sam,” Dean huffs, tearing his lips away when Sam palms his ass hard, fingers clenching in the flesh, gripping without mercy. He slips two into his brother’s hole, and Dean parts, yields for him with sinful ease, ripe and blazing hot.  

                His big brother grunts, forehead nudging against Sam’s while he gusts a few harsh breaths between their mouths.   

                “I’m just gonna slide right into you, y’know that?” Sam can’t quite smother the awe in his voice, his fingers dipping in and out of Dean with shallow thrusts. “You should feel it. _God_ , you feel incredible. Slick. Amazing—Here.”

                He removes his fingers and coaxes Dean’s hand back behind himself with an inarguable grip on his brother’s wrist.

                “With me,” he goads, plunging three fingers back inside that satiny, grasping heat. Dean moans, a throaty, resonant hum, as Sam spreads his fingers, making room for his brother. “Just one, Dean. Come on.”

                Dean’s middle finger wedges in alongside Sam’s, thicker but not nearly as long, unable to reach as deep as Sam can. His big brother’s silent now, kissable mouth stretched into a languid oval. Like Dean’s been put on mute. Their fingers move in tandem for a few strokes before Sam curls his fingertips inwards, upwards against Dean's prostate. And then his brother’s groaning at full volume, low and drawn-out.

                “See, Dean? So perfect.” Sam’s breathing heavily, grinding his stiff cock against Dean’s where they’re still mashed together.

                Dean’s voice is thick and sandpaper-rough as he babbles, “Please, Sam. Sammy.” His eyelashes are dewy and clumped with unshed tears. Sam knows Dean well enough—better than _anyone_ —to know when his big brother’s overwhelmed, unsteady.

                “Got you,” Sam assures, placing a gentle kiss on Dean’s quivering mouth. “Always got you.” Sam bites his tongue, holding back the “baby” he almost tacks on to the end of his sentence. Dean isn’t nearly far gone enough to let his little brother get away with that.

                It’s a nice consistency. No matter the circumstances, Sam can always count on Dean to be Dean.

                Sam winds his arms around Dean's back and rolls them over so he’s on top. The second his brother hits the mattress, he opens his legs, making a place for Sam. A sheen of sweat glimmers on the insides of Dean’s thighs, his cock hard and rouged against his belly. Sam’s palms engulf the bony caps of Dean’s wide-spread knees, thumbs grazing the fragile, creased skin at the crooks.

                What a sweet mess his brother makes like this, debauched and unguarded. Sam grips the base of his pulsing dick, dragging the head over Dean’s balls and the underside of his cock.

                 “ _Ah_.” Dean shakes and squeezes the covers while Sam’s cockhead circles his sensitive rim, smearing precome. “Don't be a tease.”

                Usually, Dean’s a stickler for condoms—not for the reason most people would assume. It’s because, nine times out of ten, Dean’s the one getting fucked, and once the afterglow fades, his brother tends to flop onto his back and pass out in under a minute. A bad habit he picked up from all his one-night stands, no doubt. No muss, no fuss, and most importantly, no cleanup.

                Seems like tonight’s an exception. Dean already has two loads of come leaking out of his ass. A sheepish, almost hesitant expression crossed Dean's face when he asked his baby brother to fuck him without a rubber. Personally, Sam loves the intimacy of it, the undeniable evidence of their coupling. But Dean asks for so little, thinks he deserves even less, so Sam typically keeps his mouth shut and lets his brother call the shots.

                “Jesus, don’t make me beg,” Dean whines, voice thin and strained, wrapping one leg around Sam’s waist, heel digging into his ass with insistence.

                “Shh,” Sam soothes, his cockhead sinking into the heat-swollen clutch of Dean's rim, the pressure building and rippling the farther in he pushes. “There you go,” he sighs, closing his eyes to savor the sensation, big palm spread across Dean's stomach while he bottoms out. Dean lets loose this gorgeous, wounded moan from the back of his throat, nearly bowing off the mattress.

                “How’s that?” Sam purrs, rocking forward into his brother with tiny, steady thrusts. One of Dean’s legs is curled around his side, but the other is still bent and pressed flat to the bed by Sam’s hand, giving Sam space and control. He ducks down and licks at the film of sweat covering Dean’s neck, pulse drumming under his tongue, omnipresent stubble stinging and tickling his lips. 

                “You love hearing me say it, don't you?” It’s practically a wheeze, but Dean throws as much sass into the remark as he can muster.

                “What’s that?” Sam noses at the hinge of his brother's jaw, kissing the delicate skin. He swivels his hips, Dean’s hole clamping viciously around him. He starts to feel short of breath himself.

                “That my scrawny baby brother grew up big.” Dean cranes his neck for a real kiss, and Sam doesn’t disappoint him. “Big all over.”

                Sam bites his brother’s bottom lip. “You love to say it,” he counters, murmuring. “You love to tell me how it feels.”

                Dean licks his lips so that they look glossy in the warm incandescence and arches his spine, dragging Sam in tighter at the same time, maneuvering for a better angle. “You do me so good, Sammy. You know it. Fuck, you leave me sore and aching for days, craving your cock.” His big brother cradles his cheek, expression soft and open. “That what you wanted t’ hear?”

                “Yeah, Dean,” he breathes, “’s’what I wanted.” He deepens the drive of his cock, pounds harder into the plush give of his brother’s body, and swallows all the perfect, needy noises that stream from Dean’s mouth. He’ll have crescent marks cut into his shoulders from Dean’s nails, and he knows his brother’ll kiss them later in the shower, in apology for the small hurt he caused.  

                Sam’s heart and belly swell, his chest tightens, and he presses flush against Dean’s ass when he peaks so that his come floods warm inside his brother, drenching them both. He twists his hand along the length of Dean’s dick and delivers the last few abortive jerks of his hips, giving an encouraging “aw, yeah, Dean” as his brother spills over his stomach.

                Dean’s repeating his name like a mantra, _Samsamsammysonofa **bitch**_ , barely audible, petting through his hair while he catches his breath, eyes screwed close. Sam pulls out as gingerly as he can and slumps down to lap up the mess from Dean’s belly, giving a cursory lick over the sticky head of his brother’s wilting cock. Dean’s crazy-sensitize in the immediate moments after orgasm, and he releases this little, aggrieved _mewl_ that Sam knows he’ll deny later.

                When Sam finishes, he flips onto his back, pillowing his head on one of Dean’s thighs, boneless, thoughtless. For a few minutes at least, before the dam of their afterglow breaks and responsibility once again inundates their hearts and heads. But, right now, in that small, safe cushion of time, he could fall asleep without another shower, Dean’s fingers playing in his hair. He’d regret it in the morning, Dean even more so, but it’s a tempting idea.

                “I just can’t get my fill o’ you, little brother.” Sam tilts his head up and sees a soft, nervous smile on Dean’s face, cheeks pinked with sex and embarrassment.

                “’s’okay. Not goin’ anywhere,” he replies with purpose, reaching for Dean’s hand. Sometimes his brother doesn’t like it, shakes Sam off, but tonight, he lets Sam lace their fingers together and grips back fiercely.

                “They're right about us, Sammy,” Dean adds quietly, his gaze now on the ceiling. “I’d let the world burn if it meant saving you. I need you.”

                Sam squeezes their linked hands, a comforting pulse of pressure for Dean, a wordless _me, too._ He crawls back up to the head of the bed, kisses Dean long and soft. “I know, big brother.”


End file.
